


Trailway To The Light

by Lady_R



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Blood, Bruises, Claustrophobia, Cults, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, beatings, but they'll never be the same afterwards, not quite a redemption story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: During their fight at Brightstone Cave Tseldora, Pate and Creighton are kidnapped by a Congregation of fanatics, led by a mysterious Magus they would give their blood for. A gigantic spider ravages the cave, and the two rogues are to be the human sacrifice she will feed upon.Stripped of their weapons, armor, and even of the Ring of Thorns that has caused their rivalry in the first place, the thief and the assassin have no choice but to join forces: in a maze of tunnels raided by poisonous spiders, fanatic wizards and traps of all sorts, even the closest-knit team may not have a chance to make it out alive.





	1. One

His mouth is dry, his lungs burn like coal – and even hotter are the muscle on his arms, tense and tight against his skin. 

The assailant’s axe drums on his shield, his left arm quivers underneath the metal. Pate swallows a mouthful of spit and bends his knees tighter. 

-What did I ever do to you?- 

He takes one step backwards, leaning his back against the wall. It’s as if he intook a mouthful of Charcoal Pine Resin, and crumbs of it had gotten stuck to his insides. _How long have I been here?_ His opponent’s eyes are dark, vivid, somewhere between blue and green, glistening and damp of exhaustion. The rest of his face is covered by a thick helm, in the shape of a bowl, to which is attached a triangular metallic mask. He blinks, grunting under his cover. 

-Creighton, is it? You look tired. I advise you to stop.- 

-I have but gotten started, you mangy rat.- 

Creighton has a scratchy voice that always sounds as if he’s out of breath, and because of his mask, it also possesses a somewhat metallic tone. His axe is blunt on the edge, but as polished as new, and the man himself has the muscles to wield it. Creighton adjusts his hold on the axe and swings it horizontally. Pate pirouettes away from the wall, shutting his eyes as the blade strikes against the stone. Creighton emits an angry wail.  

-All this for a ring? You’re an obsessive one.- 

It’s more than a ring, he knows that enough. People like Creighton find no value in material objects: those thorns have pierced through his skin deep enough to leave a mark, and the assassin himself won’t ever feel complete without it. 

It’s not even a remarkable ring: just a rusted circle of barbed wire, of an unpleasant dark grey. But if Creighton wants it so well, there has to be something behind it. 

 

_-As slippery as one’d expect.-_

_From under the cover of his helm, his hair are stuck to his skull. His mouth is dripping behind the mask, but he has other priorities than wiping it off. His name is Pate, and soon he’ll be no more. His teeth have a light yellow tinge, like the insides of a lemon, and salute him with a mocking grin.  Ordinary brown leather gloves cover his hands, but he can feel that he has it. His fingers itch as he reminisces of the thorns. Pate holds into his spear with both hands, lunges it at him. Creighton steps to the side, swings his axe through the air._

_-Die, at once!-_

_Pate jumps back. He grabs the leg of the table behind him and swings it through the air like a whip. Dishonorable people are always the worst ones to kill. Creighton raises his axe in front of himself: the table slams on his fingers, and flames crackle under his gauntlets. He has to shut his mouth not to scream. Pate takes one step back: but his grin fades as he adjusts his hold on his spear._

_-I hear steps, Creightin.-_

_-LIAR!-_

_Creighton lunges back at him, intakes a deep breath. Primordial snakes had less of a double tongue than him: may the Ring of Thorns burn his fingers before he gets it back. Or he could cut them off: he has the means, and it would indeed bring him pleasure._

_-He swung at me!- Pate runs to the exit, shaking his shield and waving his spear. -Please, give me a hand!-_

_-Coward!-_

_Creighton rises his sword above his head and swings it downward. Pate shrieks, shrinking behind his shield like the worm he is. Creighton swings again, and again, his axe pounds like a drum, his whole arms tremble at every blow. He will tear that shield to bits like a wooden plank, is so is required. His heart too is pounding, lungs burning against his flesh. His toes scrape painfully against his boots. He swings his feet, his chainmail garters clanking in the air, and kicks the side of the shield with all his might._

 

The incoming steps have the thunderous pace of running. That man really is a cretin, if he ignores it – _too bad I’m not, and my life is too precious to be thrown away_. Creighton’s eyes glisten like the ocean, his back quivers as he leans on the stone wall. He won’t ever give up, and there’s already enough Pursuers out there. He himself has killed one, jamming his spear into its helm before he had any chance to know he was there. Creighton is more petite than the Pursuers, but he has the wit and adaptability of men: and his raging hatred goes out to him and only him. 

He steps back, holding his shield with one whole arm, spear dangling uselessly. -Help me! He has lost his senses!-

-Enough with your lies!- Creighton pants under his mask, but his axe stays still. He’s seeing the same incoming shadows from behind the door – dark, slender, moving towards them. -I found them, Master!- a voice says. -There’s two of them-.

The arrival of the first man is preceded by the light of the torch that he holds into his right hand. The other four are clad in his same black waistcloth, tatters of the same color dangling over their shoulders, and display his same green skin – the color of Hollows, but their eyes are vigil, and it’s him and Creighton they’re looking at. Short daggers dangle from their thighs. 

-Who are you?- Creighton spits out. -Leave us be. We’re settling an account.- 

-Come on, don’t be such a grouch.- Pate removes his shield from his face and steps closer. -Welcome, dear friends. I’m so glad you finally made it.- 

-They will do. Go ahead.- A seventh man walks into the room, the white robes of his cleric tunic rustling at every step. There’s a golden chime in his right hand – it’s authentic, Pate can tell, and his day suddenly feels improved. 

He smiles, raising his arms. -I yield. Calm down, I yield. Take me.-

Creighton pants behind his back. -Fiend!-. He turns around: the assassin holds onto his axe and races at the closest man to him, his cape swinging behind his back like the wings of a wyvern. 

-Stay out of this!- The man staggers back, faintly shrieking. Creighton’s axe jams itself on his palms, blood sprays out onto his mask, and to his chest. The assassin pushes his foot onto his victim’s belly and kicks the body away. The blade of his axe is ripped from his chest, and more blood leaks out. -This is between me and him!-. 

Pate doesn’t know if Creighton has heard the ring. The blast of lightning blinds him for a moment, but Creighton’s pained wail is loud enough to fill the whole room. 

 

_Creighton’s fingers clench, knees scraping against the stone floor. Tears well up in his eyes: he wipes them with the back of his gauntlet before anyone sees. His teeth chatter behind the mask. His whole body boils and shakes of fever under his armor. The half-naked figures walk up to him from behind his blurry vision, iron-strong hands grab onto his wrists and twist them behind his back, squeezing his own flesh with their pointy fingers._

_-Get your filthy hands off me!-, Creighton spits._

_Hands grab onto his mask, fingers twist with the lock. -Don’t you dare!- Creighton yells: but the cold air of the cafe whiffs on his bare teeth. When they remove his helm too, his silver hair fall onto his face and tangle up with his eyelids. The body of the man he had lounged at twitches and shudders in front of his knees. Soon enough he’ll be no more: not that any of his captors seem to miss him._

_-Let me go!- he roars and pushes his feet on the stone. -Release me at once, you wretch!-_

_Pate shakes his head. -Save your energy for the judge, Creightin!- . He takes off his own helm and hands it to the white-robed cleric. -See? Some of us can be reasoned with.-_

_-He’s just licking your feet.- Creighton grins, squirming in his captors’ rock-solid grab. -Don’t fall for it. He’ll stab your back the moment you turn away.- Who even are these people? The cleric offers Pate a hand, and the thief pulls himself up, shoving the dust off his pants. His face is an ordinary dark white, but his curls have the bright brown of jasper. Even after being squished under his helm, they retain rich twirls and a polished outline._

_-What do you want from me, you maniacs?-_

_The cleric raises his index: one of his captors, a bearded man with wide shoulders, whips out a dagger and strikes his face with its hold._

_Creighton’s mouth slips open, but no sound comes out: not even a sob. Even breathing and seeing, for that moment, is too much. He has to scream at himself not to pass out._

 

A sudden chill grabs onto Pate’s stomach as the Mirran assassin trembles and sputters. Creighton is no weak man, he has to give him that much, and yet. He remembers the first time his own nose was broken. Peasants have short temper: all that raucous for a chicken, when he himself had like a dozen more. Still, he was lucky enough: the shovel to the face had left no permanent mark, and the chicken itself had provided him a full and fatty dinner. The first robbery in a promising career. 

Creighton spits red at his captor’s feet, his cheeks tense and rosy. A drop of sweat runs down his mouth and cracks on the rocks underneath. His skin is golden brown, glistening like a coin. From his nose, wide on the sides, but with a curved tip, seeps a string of scarlet blood. 

-Ignore him. He’s a big off his rocker.-, Pate says. The assassin squirms and grunts as his captors pull out a string of rope, and his wrists too are bound behind his back. Not that Creighton is putting any effort in displaying otherwise. It feels uncanny to see his whole face, and even stranger to admit that he’s no foul sight. Even in his rage, his lips remain plump and rosy, and his teeth are as white as snow. He strikes the man at his left with his elbow. The one he has killed lays in perfect silence, raven hair covering the face.

-I said let go! Let me go!-

Pate turns to the cleric. -So, who do I have the honor to be talking to?- 

The man grins at him, but there’s no hostility in his eyes. They seem to be too busy with Creighton to feel any opposition for him. The cleric's face is an ugly shade of bright pink, more like a corpse than a living and breathing person. Still, Pate can see there’s air in their chest. He remains motionless as he too is tied up, shaking his fingers to release his tension. 

-Hold still.- The swinging of fabric behind his back tells Pate all he needs to know. He stays still as the sack is lowered on his face – coarse brown. thick enough to keep all light out, and carrying the itchy smell of rock dust. _At the very least, we’re not under arrest_ : no legal military would allow such a treatment. But a place as lawless as Brightstone Cove Tseldora will be as complicated to navigate, and whatever twitches underneath it is probably just as hard to reason with. 

-Get this off my face, this instant!-. It’s Creighton: even in his state, he can’t mistake his rough, low tones for anything else. He hears a dry slap, then a grunt. Truly, it’s a pain he was hooded first: that would have been an amusing sight. Arms grab onto his elbows and pull him up: something cold and sharp pushes against his back. His resolve will wait. He’s one, and they’re many: for what’s worth, the ring is still on him. 

_He has the ring. Creighton clenches his lips shut,_

_He shakes his head, but the sack won’t move. It’s as dark as the Abyss, under that thing, and he’s certain that as he is, he has already swallowed a pinch of gravel. It was hard to see, from his state, but he could swear that Pate too had been restrained in the same way. He ravels in the image: when he breaks free, the lousy rat won’t even know what hit him. His axe probably is aching to revenge his humiliation and betrayal._

And my Ring of Thorns. 

_He memorizes a turn to the left, then to the right, then another to the right, but at the fifth he’s too annoyed to count anymore. They’re probably leading them in circles around the mines anyway. Clever people indeed, a mild consolation in his helplessness. It’d be the final straw to be captured –_ yet again, may the Gods be damned _– by a bunch of buffoons. The sound of at least a dozen boots clicking against the stone, then sloshing on the mud, then hissing on the sand, surrounds him from all sides – none of them, however, utters a word. Creighton wouldn’t be surprised if all of them had their tongues cut off. People of faith can bring themselves to the lowest of lows to obtain whatever extravagance they see as a blessing. He shakes his head, the coarse fabric of the sack rubbing itself on his cheeks, at the thought of he himself being destined to such a fate._

Don’t be foolish now _, he tells himself. Pate called him a cretin – mocking his own name, no less – and there was no way he’d allow the thief to be right. The scraping of rope on his skin, the sound of his breath against the fabric, the cold blade pushed against his ribs: he’s been there quite a few times._ And yet, here I am _. The only thing changing is the lack of thorns on his fingers, but he tries not to think about it, swallowing his pride as well as his words._

_The steps quiet down and fade into a muffled chatter. Hands push him to his knees, small beacons of pain burst into his bones. The blade is pushed off his back, the hood is removed from his face: he shuts his eyes, but light pierces through his eyelids like flame through a sheet of paper._

_He holds one hand onto the other, rubbing at his sore fingers. The floor, an uneven patchwork of different stones, would probably pinch on his knees was it not for the chainmail garters, not unlike the frozen peas nuns and cleric would force their young pupils to kneel upon as a form of punishment. Two rows of bare wooden benches project long, thin shadows on the floor, yellowed by the thick light of two torches in the corner. The cleric in the white tunic sits on the corner of the back left, polishing a Talisman with a sheet. The bearded man wipes the floor with a broom._

_There’s someone in the middle, the tallest of them all – or maybe not, maybe it’s just that horned mask that he’s wearing that makes them stand out –, staring in his direction with eyes that he cannot see. There’s their other captors, and at least seven more clad in the same black rags, awaiting at his side like baby birds around their parent._

_And there’s Pate at his left, tied up and kneeling like him, brown curls glistening on his bare head. For once, bless the Gods, he’s not smiling._


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Creighton's name is a few letters away from Cretin. And such he is, even in a hostage situation. In another time and place, Pate would just enjoy the spectacle. But Freja's jaws are closing by, and every brain needs a brawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is much longer than the first. I am proud of myself.

They push them to a stone altar, as if they were sacks of supplies, and chain them to a metallic ring on its top, hands behind their backs, before they can even flinch. Creighton emits a frightened grunt, but even he has the sense not to scream. 

-That is nice.- Pate forces himself to smile, even though his cheeks hurt. -But we haven’t been told where we are.-

-You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?- Creighton’s smile looks just as strained as he imagines his own. Pate shakes his locks off his face. As he swallows a mouthful of the cold air around himself, he twiddles his fingers around the chains. His leather armor pushes against his back, like needles into his skin. 

-I’m just living the moment.-

-This is no moment. This is a nightmare.- 

The chains clink as Creighton puffs his chest. His plump lips look as purple as his eyes, and his teeth chatter as he intakes deep breaths. Pate would have probably laughed, weren’t the chains so icy against his wrists. He wonders where his gloves have gone.  

-We’re done for, you hear me?- Creighton stares at him with eyes as cold as Pate’s own hands. -Done for.-

-Quit being melodramatic, Creightin.- 

-It’s you who doesn’t get it. And stop calling me Creightin. It’s getting old.- 

-Temper, temper.- 

-I swear, if my hand were free, they’d be on your throat.-

Pate turns to the ceiling. The rock is bitter green, with a linear pattern, as if someone had wiped it with poisoned water instead of soap. He sniffs – _nice that I still can, I might enjoy it before this cold wreck gets me whole_ – and relishes himself in the soft aroma of the burning pine wood of the torches. His whole world is a bitter green, not unlike the poison that coated the lost Harvest Valley. Except for Creighton’s golden arms and silver hair, and the bright purple of his eyes. _It appears even assassins can be scared_. 

-Do you think they’ll eat us?- he asks. The assassin strikes him with his shoulder, like a brute scrambling for the door in a tavern fight. It doesn’t hurt. Creighton is probably even more tired than he is. Which would have been an advantage, except not there. When in chains, every man is equally matched, and just as helpless against those who put them there. 

-They say the spiders eat human flesh.- Pate adjusts himself against the marble parallelepiped he’s strapped at. -Their poison can burn it like fire does to paper.-

-You think you can gross me out?- 

Pate blinks idly. -I forgot it’s Creightin of Mirrah I’m talking to. My apologies. I can hardly recognize you without that pretty mask.- 

 _Then it’s true: people do really have that twitchy vein in their forehead when they are angry_.

The tallest man stands up from the chairs, pacing towards them.

-Now look at _that_ mask, Cray. That bloke can give you a run for your Souls.- 

-SHUT UP!- 

Even Creighton’s hair tense as he pulls at his chains like a raging bull.

-Just shut up. Be quiet! Quiet! You’re giving me a headache and a half!- 

His eyes are wide, as if he was scared, but his pupils are like flames igniting the purple of his irises. And reflected in those eyes is the lanky figure of the Magus, and his Aldian mask of bones, that makes him look like a hybrid of man and beast. If Oolacile hadn’t fallen, he’d blend in just fine. 

-Silence.- he says, and the voice makes Pate shudder as he remembers his ruthless, previous night. Creighton’s face, suddenly at least five tones paler, tells the same about him. But his tongue moves in another way. 

-What for? He’s annoying me.- 

-This is a holy place. A covenant of worship to the Duke’s Dear Freja. A place of…- 

-HAH!-

 _No, you cretin_. Pate opens his mouth to scream, but no words escape his lips as he realizes some men are just too stubborn. _You fool, you massive fool, don’t make it more difficult_. 

Creighton’s cheeks are puffed, and his neck leans towards the floor. 

He spits once, with a force that would make Hawkeye Gough applaud him from the Catacombs of Gravelord Nito. 

-Your Dear,- he sneers, as the Magus shakes his now soiled skirt, -can lick my garters.- 

The same garters they took from him. But Pate is not one to sindacate in one’s way of conducting oneself. The Magus, however, has all the unadulterated smugness of a disappointed teacher. 

-This type is easy to guess.-

He strokes Creighton’s silver hair, and the man looks as if he could bite at any moment. 

-Causing such a raucous, in this holy place. Take him away, you know what to do.- 

Spit is dripping from Creighton’s lips as he’s unchained, and lifted onto the shoulder of the larger cleric as if he had been a package. His legs kick helplessly into the air, and his smooth, light brown face is now red and wrinkled in rage. 

-You’re digging your own grave!- the assassin yells. Yet, it’s as if Pate was the only one who heard him. 

-Where are they taking him, my lord?- he asks sheepishly. His heart pounds within his chest, and a rising sense of panic climbs up his throat. This will hurt. 

And he needs Creighton alive. 

The Magus shrugs, as if he had just kicked out a stray dog looking for food. 

-Not everybody is as clever as you, young man. Your friend will learn.- 

 _We’re not friends_ , Pate thinks. _I barely even know his name_ – and even then, only for mockery. But his mouth is as dry as that bloody deserted cave, and Creighton’s screams seem to vanish into the walls themselves. 

-You will learn, young man.- a deep female voice, with a whispery Tseldoran accent says. -You will learn.-

Pate simply nods, blasting whatever Deity he has angered to end up in that place. 

 

_-You will learn, young man. You will learn.-_

_The room where they push him is barely big enough for the three of them. As he’s pushed to the ground, kneeling with bare knees, he realizes just how much he misses his garters._

_-This room is purely soundproof. It can lead one to bliss, and it will lead you to punishment.-_

_His hands, firmly held in their chains, hold onto one another to save space. Creighton bares his teeth, blinking. He had forgotten long ago how to emote to another._

_-Do you think I’ve never seen fanatics like you?-_

_King Vendrick had no interest in the things of faith, but there was another one in Drangleic that cared even less. -Does Lord Aldia know one of his precious lackeys has become a man of prayer?-_

_The gauntlet smacks him before he can turn away. Creighton staggers back what little he can and pants from the nose as his eye loses its vision for one dreadful second._

_-I preferred the company of that cheeky prick. At least, he kept his hands in place at times.-_

_-And he uses his mind, as well. The Duke’s Dear is no god and no beast, but a perfect combination of both. Not faith nor skepticism have any effect against her will. She takes and takes, and we are but her givers.-_

_-You gave up.- Creighton smiles, and his teeth chill to the brim. He shuts his mouth for a moment. -You choose servitude. I can’t even hate you. It’s just pity, that I feel.-_

_Hands of leather unbutton his tunic from behind and let it slip down his arms. His skin is bare, but it’s as if ice had already managed to coat it. Creighton sniffs loudly._

_-You shouldn’t listen to that man. Pate, that’s his name. His obedience is but a facade.-_

_-We have seen tricksters come and go. The Duke’s Dear Freja pays no heed to bifurcated tongues. To her, we are all the same.-_

Spiders can’t think. These people replicate them flawlessly in this regard, I will give them that. 

_The Magus sits on a stool by his side, staring at him like a butcher to an animal ready to be flayed. He uncaps a vial and smells it as if it was rosewater. Yet, Creighton feels his stomach churn as the stench spreads._

_-What is that? Dung Pie concentrate?-_

_His hair are pulled, tilting his head upwards. The Magus looms over him like an idol._

_-The poison of the Duke’s Dear is only lethal if it reaches one’s blood. Unless your mouth is wounded, its lasting effects will be like those of water.-_

_The smell that reaches his nose as the cap is removed makes the mold in the room feel like a field of roses. Creighton gurgles out, coughing and sputtering._

_-Its short-term effects, on the other hand…-_

Shut your mouth: _but as he thinks this, hands of stone grab onto his chin and pull it away from his upper jaw. Fingers clench around his nostrils, a tepid and viscous thing drips down his throat, and the smell of rot that came from the vial fills up his mouth like a gag._

_He spits, but the bitterness caves into his throat – like hands of cobweb, clawing their way to his lungs._

_-Have you ever been flogged, young man?-_

_Three times, he wants to say, but only the stench of grovel spews from between his teeth. His own hands itch in between their binds, as if an entire colony of ants was running back and forth between his fingers. And even more ants are slipping down his throat and into his stomach, rolling about in his intestines. Creighton chokes and sputters, but only the itch remains._

_He clenches his fists, flesh pulsating against the bone. Fists pound on his ribcage from within. He searches for air with his tongue, but he can barely feel some shreds._

_-What in bloody hell did you do to me?-_

He _is behind his back, stroking his hair with spindly fingers. He would give one of his fingers to have his mask back. They see him, but they don’t see_ Creighton _._

_-Showing you the way.-_

_And he has forgotten what it’s like not to be_ Creighton _long ago._

_His muscles are thorns, and they pierce his skin bloodlessly. The assassin gurgles and pants, but the poison won’t leave his body for long. It’s like begging a storm to cease: it doesn’t. You just huddle around the fire and pray it ends soon enough._

_But there’s no fire for him: his skin wouldn’t be so chilled, if there was one to be found. Gloved hands stroke his bare back, tracing the lines of his ribs with surgical precision._

_-Five lashes will not take your life, but will remind you to be more compliant.-_

_Creighton’s teeth are sore, they chatter and tinkle. His eyes burn like ambers, tears dripping like juice and fill up his mouth._

Focus. You have been there _._

_-One day…-_

_Creighton swallows his bitter spit and clenches his mouth shut, so that his teeth stay quiet._

_-…I will slice your face off your head.-_

_He pants, wipes his nose into his sleeve._

_-And it will be_ glorious! _-_

_-Just gag him already. His words make me sick-_

_His smile slips off the moment the whip cracks – and he feels it a thousand time._

 

He’s halfway through his soup when he sees Creighton again. Or so he thinks: he recognizes the hair, but the rest of his body looks more like a bundle of bloodied rags. He has no idea when or how he has moved to that spot, but asking one of their captors would make his night even worse. 

There’s blood on the stones around the assassin. His back quivers up and down, as if he was…

Pate hugs himself, in sudden need of a seat. He has to keep himself from running, he’s so curious.

-Where are you going?- 

The Magus’ hand is surprisingly warm, but it still feels as if a stone statue has gripped onto his arm. Pate gulps, polishing his tunic. -This man’s blood has tarnished your floor. Let me tend to it. It will be my way of atoning for the sins of my companion.- 

The Magus’ grip tightens, but his back lowers in relax. As they walk to the motionless body of the assassin, Pate can hear his coarse breath and muffled panting.  

-Our way is not to be sadistic. The Duke’s Dear takes what’s hers, no more, no less. Your wounds will heal soon. May your silence and your immobility be a reminder of our mercy.-

-He’s frightened.- Pate tries.

-Good. His fear will keep him tame.- 

 _Is he blind?_ Creighton looks as if he’ll shatter sooner or later – like porcelain, and the cracks on his ragged skin even match the look of a mishandled vase. 

-It keeps me tame, know this well enough. Just let me look, so that his misery can be a reminder of what I could be.- 

The assassin’s body looks frail, delicate even, in that shapeless tunic that leaves his forearms and knees bare. His hands are tied behind his back, the tip of his fingers blue and rigid. A strip of black leather is knotted on his nape, under the ears. His eyes are wide, but it feels as if Creighton would rather shut them. Thick red veins pulsate around his pupils, as if they were trying to reach and grab them. 

 _This man has been drugged_. Pate leans on the wall, knees weak and bones cold. They worship spiders so much, they have started mimicking their way of behaving. Spiders can’t be bribed or tricked, that’s far enough. And they’re way too slippery to be hurt by the tip of a spear. 

 _I don’t even have a spear, anymore_. _And I could be the next_. 

He leans his head forward, stroking the tip of the bound man’s silver hair. Maybe, a familiar language will help him focus. 

-Having a bad dream, Creightin?-

-Hnnh.- 

The assassin curls up on himself, knees folded onto his chest. Stripes of blood seep through the his tunic, behind his back, and color the fabric an unpleasant brown. 

Pate sits down by his side, cross-legged. -Sweet Kremmel almighty, they pounded you up nice and tight.- 

Creighton can’t speak: not from his mouth at least, but his blazing cheeks and rabid eyes are vocal enough. Pate stretches a hand towards the assassin’s face. 

-Mmh…-

-Hush, now. Let me look at you.- 

He runs a hand through his hair: the tips are stained with blood, but the roots and midsections shine like quicksilver at the light of the torches.

-I could shave you bald and sell it all for a fortune. I’m surprised you yourself didn’t think of it.-

Creighton roars into the gag – and his roar turns into a grunt, then a hiss, and as his back hunches and blood seeps through the fabric and his fists are so tight his knuckles look violet, Pate hears a _sob_. His teeth are firmly stuck in place, but the trembling of his lips is unmistakeable. 

-What is it? Are you cold?-

Creighton closes his eyes. _He is_. He can only imagine the state of his fingers. That rope is too tight: either they don’t know how to tie someone up properly, or they know it way too well – and someone out there is having the moment of their life at this very thought. 

-Come on, big guy. You’re tougher than this.- 

Pate runs his gaze on the assassin’s mouth, open in the shape of an o: the leather bind jammed between his lips has dug into their corners, and thick red crusts are stuck to his skin. Still, he can see there’s even more fabric inside Creighton’s own mouth, keeping his jaws forcibly separated. He probably can’t even move his tongue, and he can hardly imagine the taste. _How does he even breathe?_ His nose looks dry for now, but the chilly caverns would be enough to make a Gyrm shiver. He himself could use a liberating sneeze. 

Creighton winces, sighing at no one in particular. The Magus kneels by his side, like a hunter inspecting a fallen deer. 

-Hush, young man. Your suffering is necessary. Blame your condition on yourself. If one’s speech isn’t put to good use, one deserves to lose it.-

Pate licks the insides of his teeth, relishing in his free tongue and loose mouth. Creighton is a man of action, not of words, _and yet look at what losing his voice has done to him_. Even he’s smart enough not to lose his drool after a damned spider. 

-My friend was highly troubled by our uncertain travels. His health is frail, I’m afraid.- 

He has told better lies, he can admit it freely. Creighton’s body is traced in blood, but his muscles are thick and tense. The Magus stares at him – or so Pate believes, his eyes are nowhere to be seen under that grotesque mask – and sighs, like a coachman whose trail has been interrupted by a fallen tree. 

-The Duke’s Dear deserves a man in health. It was only for his own merits that this man is in this state.- 

 _He smells of mold_. Pate holds his breath, turning away from the bound man. Creighton’s mask was probably a hindrance for smells as well, and now that his face is free, a whole new world is knocking at his nose. With unkind intentions, he’s inclined to believe. 

-Please. He can’t _breathe_.- 

This time, he’s not even sure where the lie ends and where Creighton’s own sorrow begins. If his hands are so tense, he can hardly imagine his lungs fare any better. Pate blinks frantically and produces some gentle, sweet sobs. 

-I beg of you. He’s choking in that gag. He will no longer say what he said.- He sniffs loudly, wiping his clean face with his wrist. -He will behave. Will you, Creighton?-

The assassin grunts again, but tears escape his eyes as he nods. Pate’s fingers itch. _Soon, that could be me_. Creighton’s skin is as thick as the chainmail of his garters, but even mail can be pierced through with the proper blow. His hands tremble as they undo the gag and remove the cloth from between Creighton’s jaws. 

-Don’t spoil it for me, Cretin.- he whispers. -Keep it low, alright? Be a good hostage.- 

-Un-Untie me.- Creighton pants, but his voice is as thin as the rustle of sand. 

The Magus shakes his head, places a hand on Pate’s shoulder, and he has to hold his fists to keep himself from wincing. 

-This will teach him a lesson. The sores that await him will be a reminder on how to behave.-

-Can I comfort him?- Pate says with a calm that, he believes, would earn him an applause in a just world. -We will pray together. We share the same faith.-

The Magus’ hand strokes his hair, just enough to send him chills. He stays still and widens his smile. Two can play at this game. 

-You will be a great example for this reckless man.-

Creighton opens his mouth, but only drool drips out. 

 

_There’s Pate: curls of brown, eyes of a snake, hands that stroke him softly, but feel like freshly forged daggers on his sore skin. There’s the masked man, the one who held the whip, walking away from him – maybe a god is listening to him after all. There’s the blood on his back, as thick as mud, and the ropes that dig into his wrists like the jaws of a beast. There’s the heat on his skin, that feels as is it’s peeling off lair by lair. There’s his brain sizzling like coal, cold sweat sticking to his hair._

They drugged me _._

_There’s the awareness, of course. And there’s one tear at the corner of his mouth, the only place in his body that doesn’t feel as cold as night. His back feels like it’s cracking into bits at every breath he takes, but his lungs ache whenever he tones his panting down. Trapped, yet again._

_-Easy, big guy. Focus on me.- Pate leans a hand behind his shoulder, sending a shower of nerves to his back, and helps him to his knees. -Let’s get you warmed up.-_

_-If you t-touch me any further, I will scream.-_

_Pate shakes his head. The bonfire is alive, bright,_ inviting _. -Screaming? Seriously? Where did your pizzazz go? Cutting people open, goring them to bits. That is you. But you’ve had a bad day, and you’re tired. I can forgive you for not being at your best.-_

 _He’s right, and Creighton would give his own eyes just for a chance to lunge at his throat and rip it open. Or just to cry,_ I need it, damn it all _, but not there and not then. A drop of blood runs perpendicularly across his back, as cold as the rest._

_Pate lays him down, sits cross-legged so that his head rests between his knees. He runs a hand in between Creighton’s hair, slowly, and combs them off his face with his fingers. -Come on, let’s talk. You’re the only one at this banquet that I know.-_

_-Your sense of humor is rotting me from the inside.-_

_-I’ll only stop because I need you alive. Your life is my life, as we are now.-_

Isn’t this the knighting ceremony from some place I can’t remember? _He blinks to keep his eyes from falling shut. He’d rather not dream, not until he stops shaking. He wonders how soft the Magus’ tunic is, and how easily an axe can break through its fabric._

_-I don’t know you, Cray, but I’d rather not end up as a spider’s dinner.-_

_-If I was a spider, I’d spit you out whole.- Creighton shakes his head, his temple rubbing against the man’s leg. There’s no point in trying to snark: he’s a wreck and can’t afford to be cheeky. -But I see your point,_ somehow _. What do I have to do with this, though? You could just lie yourself out of this mess.-_

_-Those spiders in the cave won’t accept verbal persuasion, I’m afraid.-_

_Creighton gulps. At every word that man speaks, it’s as if more bars are raised between him and his life as he knows it. Sparks run through his back, and every breath feels scarcer than the previous one. He’s ready to bet every hair on his head that his dreams will revolve around the Magus’ ugly grin._

They bloody drugged me _._

_-So what?-_

_-If we want to live,- Pate kneels at his side, leaning his mouth towards his ear, -we’ll have to fight side by side.-_

_For a moment, the assassin believes his feverish night has already taken hold. They say strange things happen to one that dreams in great distress. Kremmel, God of Struggle, won’t hold his hand out of this one._

_-How do I know you will not jab a knife into my back, you measly rat?- he coughs out._

I’m so, so tired _. He has to look at Pate’s feet to remind himself that he’s no longer in_ that room _. The smell of moss fills his nostrils like wax, and makes his tear-filled eyes burn even more. Pate’s face is so blurred in front of him, he doesn’t even see him move his lips._

_-May Kremmel have my word, I shall not. You’re more precious to me than those people.-_

_-I see my blood is what it took you to finally understand what we’re destined for.-_

_Pate twitches his nose. Next to the door, a cleric is sweeping at the benches with a rag, and a scantily clad servant is scrubbing at the walls._

They’re ignoring us _. He would smile, if he had the strength to. He wishes to curl up within the stone of the floors, like a bug slipping between the tiles, and sob himself to sleep where no one can know. His bones burn from the inside, his back_ sizzles _. Pate gives him a distant, pitying stare._

_-So what will it be? Will you guide me to the light, or will you rather die just to watch me get axed?-_

_Creighton closes his eyes. Maybe the two of them are bugs after all: Butterfly Flames rumbling at the bottom of a bag until convenience calls._

_He closes his eyes, pupils burning through the skin. He won’t even be able to help him, maybe, if this condition takes its toll on him. And he would have lost – the mere thought sends another sobbing fit through his body._

I haven’t cried in months. What have they made me?

_Pate spreads out a blanket and sprawls it on his body, then lays at his side, wrapping himself in a cover of his own._

_-Here, help yourself out. And don’t ever say I never do anything for you.-_

_The feeling of warmth is too magnificent for him to answer that remark. Pate leans his back on the wall and holds him close, arms wrapped around his chest as is he was the bloody Goddess Fina. The assassin is too tired even to sneer._ O Kremmel, God of Struggle, may your arms help me through the steep walks _._

_-Are you comfortable, Cretin? Tomorrow, you must remind me to get those wrists checked out.-_

_-I’m getting used to these ropes, actually.-_

_-You’re the most inexperienced assassin I’ve ever seen, if that’s true.-_

_Creighton sighs, but doesn’t respond. A night of sleep will bring back the Creighton he knows, like a butterfly escaping from a cocoon. One doesn’t become_ Creighton _in one day, and all the effort that he put in becoming himself will not be thrown away for so little. A whip and some ropes may shatter another, but not him._ Just rest. Rest.

_-Good night then, Cretin.- It’s Pate, but his voice sounds as if he’s screaming through a bed of water. -Have sweet dreams and don’t worry about a thing. I got you, y’ hear.-_

_Poison can be as sweet as these words. If Creighton’s hands were free, he’d give himself a nice smack for his sudden relaxation. All he wants, as he is now, is a_ break _. He remembers the previous night’s sleep – the soft earth, the tender grass, the gentle silence – like the dearest of childhood memories. Now his legs are bare, his face is visible – and tear-stricken –, his world itself has gone awry. The only familiar thing is a stupid man behind him, that has stolen his dearest possession and calls him a stupid distortion of his own name._

 _Pate’s hands raise the blanket up to his hairline, covering his face. Creighton swallows his tears and blesses the darkness that keeps them hidden._ I should be more used to having secrets. Now, now. Remember, Kremmel is a dear friend to Quella, God of Dreams _: tomorrow is another day, and Creighton will remain the same. Or so he prays, as the sores on his lips burn against the ungrateful taste of tears._


End file.
